


Where the light enters

by accidental



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Healing, Infidelity, M/M, Major Character Injury, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-24 12:37:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2581673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accidental/pseuds/accidental
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is a twisted, tangled thing.  Anders loves Garrett with all his heart, and Garrett loves Anders too, but he also loves Fenris. How can you choose between your heart and your soul? None of them are happy, but sometimes healing comes in unexpected ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the scent of sour wine

**Author's Note:**

> The wound is the place where the light enters you. (Rumi, 13th century Persian poet)

Hawke was drunk.  
His footsteps on the stairs were heavier than usual; he huffed and sighed as he sank down onto the bed to unlace his boots.  
Anders suspected he was deliberately exaggerating his condition, because even in his cups, Garrett was never clumsy or graceless. He kept his back turned to him, eyes closed, following the familiar sounds of his bedtime routine; the dull thud of boots discarded on the floor, the jangling of buckles. Anders could picture him unfastening his trousers and pulling them down over his hips; the slide of skin like silk over muscles as he bent to take them off.

He'd never wanted anyone as much as he wanted Hawke. It wasn't fair.

Anders felt a chill as the embroidered quilt was pulled back, exposing one shoulder to the night air, and he lay there tense and still, resisting the urge to pull it back up again. The mattress dipped beneath him. He felt the scratch of Hawke's beard through his thin cotton shirt, and the heat of him against his back. Garrett always felt warm. His own skin was cold and too thin; Hawkes touch was the only thing that warmed him. 

Hawke stretched, and moved closer, his chest pressed to Anders’ back, a kiss brushing his shoulder, and the mingled scents of leather and sweat and spilled wine; an undercurrent of something musty and dank, like flowers left dying in a vase.  
Anders had stayed awake intending to confront him, but faced with it he was suddenly afraid. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“You reek of him,” he said.

Hawke groaned. “Don’t do this now.”

“When, then? “ Anders asked. “Shall I wait until after you’ve fucked me? Would that be more convenient for you?”

“Do you want me to? Fuck you, I mean. “ Hawke's lips were hot on the back of his neck. His hand found the opening of Anders shirt and slid beneath it, the roughened pad of a thumb brushing Anders' nipple before moving downwards, over his belly, coming to rest in a firm grip on the bony slant of his hip. Anders shoved it away. 

“Oddly enough, I'm not particularly aroused by the thought of you coming to me straight from his bed.”  
He sat up and reached for the candle on the bedside table, and sparks danced between his fingertips, an uncanny shade of purple as they caught at the wick. The room flickered into focus, and Anders saw that Hawke looked drawn and anxious in the dim light. The shadows beneath his eyes gave a cruel cast to his features. He was a stranger, Anders thought. He was someone who would do him harm.

“You’re not going to deny it, then?” 

“There's no point,” Hawke said.”It would be an insult to you both.”

Anders' heart sank. Part of him had wanted the lie, and the option of pretending he believed it. He pulled his knees up to his chest, drawing the covers up around them, hugging them to him as the shadows closed in.

“Am I not enough for you?” he asked.

“ It's not like that.”

“What is it like, then? “ he demanded bitterly. “Is he a better fuck than me? Is that it?”

“He has a name,” Hawke said.

 _Wild dog, knife ear, whore, slave..._ The words echoed around Anders' head, like curses whispered in a chantry. “Of course he is,” he went on. “I bet he picked up a few filthy tricks in the Imperium. Does he go down on his knees for you? Do you have him call you master?”

“This is beneath you, Anders.” Hawke spoke softly, but Anders could hear the hurt in his voice. _Good_ , he thought. Part of him wanted nothing more than to lash out and draw blood.

He felt the palm of Garrett's hand on his back, still at first, waiting to see if he'd snarl and shrug it off. When he didn't, it began to move gently, stroking in little circles between his shoulder blades, over the hard curve of his spine; soothing and caressing. Fingertips brushed the back of his neck, crept up into his hair. Anders let them stay. There was another part of him that wanted to lay his head on Hawke’s chest and sob and let his tormentor comfort him, and he hated himself for it.

“It seems nothing is beneath me when it comes to you,” he muttered. 

He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to lean into the touch, to arch his back and rub against Garrett’s hand like a cat, the way he usually did. It was a relief when Hawke finally moved away, getting up to fetch the half finished bottle of wine he'd left on the mantelpiece the night before.

Anders watched as he sniffed at the contents before tilting the bottle to his lips and swallowing. He held the bottle out before him like an offering, and Anders shook his head, blinking through the sudden burning at the back of his eyes.

He looked away as Garrett got back into the bed.

“Please, Anders; say something,” Garrett said.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. I almost wish you'd shout, or punch me.” 

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought of it. The urge had flared in him, fierce and terrifying, and then faded again just as quickly, replaced by a dull, leaden misery that ached in his bones. Hitting Garrett wouldn’t make him any happier. 

Anders sighed. “I take it he’s alright with being your bit on the side?” he asked.

“Not exactly, no,” Garrett admitted.

“Oh well, as long as the great Garrett Hawke gets what he wants, what does it matter if everyone else has to suffer?”

“Do you think this is what I want?” Hawke grabbed his shoulder, pulling him roughly around to face him. His face twisted, ugly with pain.“ I didn’t mean this to happen, Anders. I hate knowing I’m hurting you.”

“Then don’t,” Anders snapped.

“I don’t know what to do.” Garrett's voice was hoarse, and Anders realised that he was choking back tears. His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight. Anders was appalled. He reminded himself he’d wanted this conversation. He'd thought not knowing where he stood was the worst thing, but somehow he hadn't imagined it like this. He’d expected denial, or recriminations, but not tears. It was unbearable.

“I wanted to tell you, but i was afraid,” Garrett said.

“Do you want me to leave?” Anders asked.

“Maker, no… though i wouldn’t blame you if you did.” Hawke reached for his hand. “I love you Anders; I can’t do without you.”

“What then?” Anders heart pounded wildly in his chest, like something trapped and terrified. “Will you tell him it’s over?”

“ I can’t.” Hawke’s voice shook. He sounded completely lost. “You don’t understand. I love him. I love you both. The thought of losing either of you is unbearable.” His grip on Anders’ hand tightened until it was almost painful. “I know I have no right to ask anything of you, after what i’ve done, but i’m begging you Anders, please don’t make me choose between you. It would be like having to choose between my heart and my soul.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. " I think it would kill me,”he said.

There was something pitiful about it, Anders supposed; this powerful man reduced to begging, diminished by his own lust. He wondered briefly if he should feel empowered by it. He didn’t; he felt sad, and trapped. It wasn't fair.

He could have forgiven a fling, or an infatuation, but not this. That Garrett could profess to love someone who hated everything he stood for … he might as well put a blade in Anders back.  
He stared down at the hand that held his, at the familiar scars and callouses, the stains ingrained around his fingernails. He thought he’d probably still love those hands even if they were holding a knife to his heart, and the realisation filled him with despair. When it came to it, he was helpless. He couldn't abandon Garrett; not after everything he’d done for him, and everything Garrett had lost. And he didn't want to be alone again, with just the voices in his head.

“Hush.” he whispered. “I’m still here, Garrett, please…” He pulled the other man close, feeling the shudders that went through him as he tried not to sob, and thinking how pathetic it was, that he still had the urge to offer him comfort, even though he was screaming inside.  
Garrett clung to him, the scent of sour wine on his breath.The closeness, and the familiar warm weight of his body sent a fresh wave of pain surging through Anders’ chest. Trying not to think about what he was doing, he fumbled with the fastenings of Hawke’s smalls, dragging them down over his narrow hips. Hawke’s cock lay curled, thick and fleshy, against his thigh. He closed his eyes as he took it into his mouth, slightly repulsed by the softness of it. 

“Anders, we don't have to do this.”

“No.” The feeling of Hawke’s hand in his hair was intolerable. He sucked at him, and heard him groan helplessly as his cock swelled to fill Anders’ mouth. Anders swirled his tongue, and licked, and sucked again, faking a soft little moan as Hawke thrust hesitantly, almost apologetically, into his mouth. He knew he was good at this; he’d remind Hawke how good he was, how much he wanted him. He had no pride left now; neither of them did.

He bent his head, taking the hard length as deeply into his throat as he could. Hawke’s breath hissed between his teeth, the muscles in his thighs tightened beneath Anders’ fingers as he swallowed. It struck him then, all of a sudden; the image of Hawke touching Fenris like this; Hawke kissing the elf and putting his cock inside him. His mouth filled with saliva, and he gagged, fighting the urge to retch.

“I’m sorry,” he groaned. “I can’t.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Garrett insisted.

“Yes, it bloody does.” He got up onto to his knees on the silk sheets, pulling up his shirt and baring himself, feeling his face redden with the shame of it. “ Fuck me,” he said.

“Are you sure? “

Anders bit back a laugh. No, he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure about any of it. He felt no desire, just anger and misery, and a desperate need to know that Hawke still wanted him; that everything was still the same.

The grease he conjured to slick himself with was inadequate, and Hawke was clumsy, too fogged by emotion to be gentle. Not that Anders wanted gentleness; the burn as Hawke filled him felt fitting somehow, and torn flesh was easy to mend; it was nothing compared to the ache in his heart.

He’d always seen Fenris as a threat. Garrett had spent a night with the elf years ago, before he and Anders were together, and though he’d never said much about it, Anders had got the distinct impression it hadn’t gone well. Despite Hawke’s assurances that his attraction to the elf was all in the past, Anders had always felt uneasy about having him around. The warrior had a barbaric sort of glamour about him, in the lyrium scars that lit his skin with starlight. And Tevinter was notorious for it’s depravity and excess - he could barely begin to imagine what sort of skills might be required of a slave there.

He couldn’t blame Hawke, really. He'd always known, deep down, that he’d never be enough for a man like him. He was a rag and bone thing, too broken, too raw around the edges. He had so little left to give.

His skin felt numb beneath Garrett’s kisses. He clutched at the wooden headboard, bracing himself against it as Hawke thrust into him. He couldn’t stop himself thinking about it now; Hawke holding Fenris, kissing him, calling out his name as he fucked him. He felt like a whore. A tangle of images flashed through his mind; cruel, careless hands and jeering voices; _loves it, doesn't he? Filthy little mage slut can’t get enough..._

He fought down the urge to cry.

It had been different with Garrett. It had been more than he’d ever dared to hope for, and now it felt cheap and broken. He’d wanted to believe that what they had was special, but when it came down to it, Garrett Hawke was just as weak and as selfish as everyone else.

Hawke's fingers gripped like claws; his breath grew ragged as he whispered Anders' name like a prayer into the night. He cried out, burying his face in Anders' hair, and Anders felt a tear against the back of his neck, hot first and then cold, making him shudder as it trailed between his shoulder blades.

“Love you so much Anders,” Garrett whispered. 

Anders felt numb as Garrett reached between his legs, fingers slippery with sweat closing around his half hard cock. He gripped Hawke's wrist wordlessly and jerked it away, pulling out from beneath him and feeling his spill trickle queasily between his thighs.  
He pulled the sheet up to cover himself, though it was a bit late now, he supposed, for any pretence at dignity. 

“There are going to be rules,” he said, and the words came from somewhere cold inside him. “I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to hear his name. You'll never come to me straight from his bed like this again, do you understand?”

Hawke nodded meekly. “Thank you. I don't deserve you, love. I’m sorry.” His brown eyes glittered in the flickering light, and Anders couldn't bear to look at him. He snuffed the candle flame between his fingers and lay back against the pillows, blinking back his own tears, wondering what had just happened. Had he really agreed to share the man he loved with that wretched bloody creature? The whole thing felt like a bad dream.  
If Garrett wanted to think he was some sort of fucking saint for this, he wouldn't do anything to disabuse him, but the truth was, he was just weak, and achingly lonely. Kirkwall was a monstrous place, a steaming cesspit of misery, corruption and violence, and Hawke was the only thing that made it bearable; the one bright light in his life.

It would be as easy to stop breathing as to do without him.

Almost against his own will, he reached for him, pressing his face into his lover’s broad chest, still somehow finding a measure of comfort in the familiar embrace, and hating himself for it.

Eventually Hawke fell asleep. His breathing slowed and deepened, broken every now and then by a little shudder, a catch in his breath that wasn’t quite a sob. Anders lay in his arms, staring miserably into the darkness, sleepless and sick at heart. Garrett was still there beside him, he still loved him and wanted him, but the shadows in the room seemed deeper, the bed felt colder, as if an empty space had opened between them. 

He felt like he’d lost something, though he couldn’t say what it was.


	2. Hopeless prayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for blood, injury.

“No, don’t be dead, please…”

The words echoed through Anders head as he ran towards the crumpled figure, the soles of his boots slipping on the wet flagstones. There was so much blood. It spread out in a crimson puddle, soaking through the fabric of Anders’ trousers as he fell to his knees by the injured man’s side.

“Garrett, love…” 

Hawke’s eyelids fluttered at the sound of his voice, but he didn’t stir. A scream started forming, somewhere at the back of Anders’ throat, and he swallowed it down. He had to stay calm, for Garrett’s sake.  
The source of the blood was immediately obvious; the wound in Hawke’s stomach gaped red and wet through his torn leathers. He needed to stop the bleeding. If he could manage to stem the flow, at least they’d be able to get him back to the mansion where he could die with some measure of privacy, rather than providing a sideshow for the gawping crowd of nobles that were gathering like vultures around them.

Hawke coughed weakly, blood spraying thick and dark from his lips.

“It’s alright.” Anders cradled his head, gently stroking the dark hair back off his forehead. “I’m here, I’ve got you. You’re going to be alright.” The words were like ash on his tongue.

He was only vaguely aware of the clamour of voices around them, and Aveline shouting in the background, fighting to keep the panic from her own voice as she tried to control the crowd. It all seemed to be happening far away, and he shut it out, his brow knotting in concentration as he held his fingers to Hawke’s throat, feeling for the injured man’s pulse. It was weak and unsteady; moth wings against the glass of a lantern. He was in shock, his body shutting down.

_Maker, help him. Please._

Blood pulsed hot over Anders hands as he placed them on the wound, casting a simple healing spell to slow the bleeding. It was battlefield magic; emergency first aid rather than proper healing. Clots the colour of blackberries formed glistening beneath his fingers as the flow of blood gradually slowed to a trickle. A wave of nausea surged through him, and he turned his head away, choking on the bile that burned his throat.

“Mage?” 

The elf appeared at his side, bare feet splashing, sickeningly, in the crimson puddle. Anders ignored him. Hawke had been true to his word, and had kept the two of them apart in the months since that awful night, but when the situation with the Qunari had reached crisis point, Anders had swallowed his pride. There was no way he was letting Hawke charge headlong into that mess without a decent healer at his side. 

Not that it had made any difference, in the end, he thought. 

“Help him,” Fenris said.

“What do you think I’m bloody trying to do?” Anders didn’t look up. He sat back on his heels, pushing the hair out of his eyes with his wrist, smearing his face with red. Hawke’s skin was the colour of ashes. Anders watched as something wet landed on his cheek, scoring a path through the mask of drying blood as it made it’s way slowly down his face.

He hadn’t realised he was crying.

He let the tears fall freely as he picked his lover up, struggling to his feet. Hawke felt like a scarecrow in his arms, like one of the flimsy straw men they’d used for weapons training in the Wardens. The crowd parted and fell back as he carried the unconscious man through the hall and out into the deserted streets, the elf following at his heels like a dog. 

Even in Hightown, the smell of burning filled the air. Smoke hung like a stormcloud over the city, tinting the sky with a sickly greenish light that transformed the familiar surroundings into something out of a nightmare. A scattered trail of crimson marked his path as he staggered toward the Amell estate. 

In the hallway, he shouted for Bodahn, his voice echoing hollowly around the room. The dwarf came running from the direction of the kitchen, his eyes widening as he took in the limp and bloodied form in Anders’ arms.  
“He’s badly hurt,” Anders explained. “I'll need water, and bandages.”  
Bodahn nodded and hurried off back to the kitchen. Anders hesitated, swaying slightly on his feet, momentarily paralysed by the thought of what lay ahead. He had almost forgotten about Fenris, until the elf caught at his sleeve.

“I will stay by his side.”

The pain in his green eyes made Anders angry; he had no right to it. He ignored him, pushing past him towards the staircase. 

“He will want me here, when he wakes,” Fenris said.

 _If he wakes_ , Anders thought. He snarled “Don’t flatter yourself.” If the elf was right, that in itself was almost reason enough to send him away. He didn’t want the wretched creature here, in the home he shared with Hawke; the very idea was abhorrent. But he didn’t have the energy to argue, while Hawke lay dying in his arms.

“Do what you want,” he muttered.” I don’t care.”

He carried Hawke upstairs and laid him on the bed. Taking a knife from his belt, he began cutting the bloodsoaked leathers off him, moving mechanically, almost without thinking. There was a part of him that was already lost to despair; his muscles were tense with the anticipation of pain.

He closed his eyes, reliving the moment when the Arishok’s sword had gone through Hawke’s body, seeing once again the look of horror and disbelief on his face, the way he’d stumbled back, a final, desperate shockwave of energy bursting, raw and uncontrolled, from his outstretched hands. The huge Qunari warrior had been knocked off his feet by the blast, landing in a crumpled heap where he hit the wall, and Garrett had fallen to his knees in a spreading pool of crimson.

 _Maker…_ Anders rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, as if he could scrub the image away. He drew in a long shuddering breath.

“I can help,” the elf said quietly from the doorway.

Anders nodded, visibly pulling himself together. Realistically, he couldn’t afford to turn down the offer. He lifted the key on it’s chain from around his neck, and handed it to the other man. “There’s a passageway in the cellar,” he said. “ A tunnel that comes out near to my clinic. I need you to go there and get some things; elfroot… the jar is labelled Canavaris. And powdered deep mushroom, and there’s a binding agent… wait, i’ll write it down.” 

The warrior glared at him from beneath his shock of white hair, as if challenging him. “ I cannot read,” he said.

 _Oh for pity’s sake…_ Anders looked at him in disbelief. 

“Hawke has been teaching me.”

_Well,_ Anders thought; that was a new image. Oddly, it was more disturbing in it’s way than the mindless fucking he usually imagined when he pictured the two of them together. Fortunately, he didn’t have time to dwell on it.

“You know what elfroot looks like, don’t you? And one of my assistants will be there - if you explain what’s happened and tell them i sent you, they’ll help you find the other stuff.” He studied the elf through narrowed eyes, trying to decide how far he could trust him, and deciding he had little choice. “There’s a box hidden under the floorboards, beneath the chest in the back room,” he said. “ I need you to bring that too, but it’s vital that nobody sees where i keep it. Do you understand?”

Fenris nodded.

“Be quick then. He’s fading.” 

Anders turned back to the bed, breathing a deep sigh of relief as he heard the elf’s soft footsteps on the stairs. He was glad to finally be alone with Hawke. He bent over the unconscious man and kissed his forehead softly.

“Oh, my poor darling.” He brushed the hair back from Garrett’s face. Hawke’s skin was grey against the white pillow, and his lips had a bluish tinge to them. He looked younger with his eyes shut. He always seemed so much larger than life, it was easy to forget how young he really was.  
He clutched at Hawke’s cold hand. “Don’t leave me,” he begged. Tears welled in his eyes again, and he brushed them away, almost angrily. There was no time for self pity. He turned away from Hawke’s face and forced himself to examine the wound.

Years of healing had taught Anders a certain amount of detachment. Sometimes it became necessary to distance himself from what he was doing, to reduce his patients to list of symptoms, a puzzle of flesh and blood and bone, otherwise the endless parade of pain and suffering, the lost limbs and the shattered lives, became too much to bear.  
Impossible to do that now, when it was Garrett who lay there, broken and barely breathing. Each stilted, painful breath felt as if it was his own, and the silence between them was filled with dread.

He’d never seen anyone survive a wound like Hawke’s. The Qunari sword had gone right through him, tearing it’s way through flesh and muscle, leaving a hole big enough to fit a fist into. Anders had managed to stop the worst of the bleeding before he moved him, and the blood oozed thick and slow at the ragged edges of the wound now, but the inside of it was a mess, dark and glistening, a glimpse of white bone showing sickeningly through the red. A clammy sweat broke out on Anders’ brow as he looked at it. 

“You won’t let him die.” Fenris stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, the wooden box containing Anders’ precious supply of Lyrium potions tucked under his arm. The words sounded suspiciously like a threat, but Anders shook his head.

“Not if I can help it, no.”

He stripped off his bloody jacket, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The Lyrium gave off a faint glow as he held the bottle to his lips and swallowed. He’d never got used to the feeling of it, the cold burn as it went down, the tingle that spread along his sensitised nerves, making him almost painfully aware of them; the pattern they made through him, like the tangled branches of a tree, alive and reaching out towards the light.

He reached for the fade. The spirits flickered and danced on the other side of the veil, drawn to him like moths, and Anders gathered them to him, feeling their light fill him, feeling the power crackle and burn through his veins. He heard the elf draw in a hissing breath beside him, and felt a sharp stab of anger that the fool persisted in his mindless hatred of magic, even when it was the only shred of hope they had.

His anger soon faded into the background, along with everything else, as he concentrated on healing Hawke’s wound. It was painstaking work, drawing together the torn flesh, the twist of nerves and veins and sinews. He lost himself in it, unaware of Bodahn scurrying to and from the room with various items, or of Fenris, silent and watchful at his side. When he moved to turn Hawke over onto his front, he was almost shocked to see a pair of tattooed hands reach across the bed to help him.  
When he was finally satisfied that he’d done as much he could, he closed the wound, fusing the skin beneath his fingers into a raw and angry looking scar. He stepped back, dizzy and disorientated, clutching at the frame of the bed to steady himself. The room had grown dark while he was occupied, and now the lamps were lit, and a fire burned in the hearth.

Garrett was still deathly pale, but his breathing was steady now, the rise and fall of his chest clearly visible.

“Will he live?” Fenris asked.

“I don’t know,” Anders muttered wearily. “I’m a mage, not a miracle worker.” 

He was cold now, exhausted and still deathly afraid. Dread had settled like a weight in his bones from the moment the Arishok had uttered his challenge. 

He remembered taking a helpless step forward, feeling Aveline’s gauntleted hand on his shoulder, and knowing it was there not to comfort him but to hold him back. She didn’t trust him not to lose control.  
He knew what Hawke’s friends all thought of him. Fenris openly called him an abomination, the irony of it apparently lost on him. The kinder ones simply thought him mad; even Varric sometimes let a sort of hopeless pity creep into his voice when he spoke to him.

Hawke had never pitied him, never been afraid. He took him as he was, and accepted that Justice was part of him. Hawke had loved and trusted him, even when he didn’t trust himself. 

He scrubbed the blood from his hands, and then fetched a blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders like a cloak, drawing an armchair up to the side of the bed and curling up in it, his knees pulled up almost to his chin.  
Fenris pulled up a chair at the opposite side of the bed and sat down stiffly. He was a grim sight, Anders thought, sitting there in his bloodied armour, like some sort of ghastly spectre haunting the room.

“He’s sleeping,” he said wearily. “There’s nothing you can do here now.”

“I will stay.”

Anders rubbed his gritty eyes. Fenris had no right to be here; he should tell him to go. Except of course he would refuse, and Anders couldn’t physically force him to leave.  
He didn’t understand why the stubborn elf insisted on staying. He was nobody; he was Hawke’s whore, that was all. It was obvious from his expressionless face and the harsh glare of his green eyes, that he didn’t really care about him. The cold bastard never seemed to care about anything except himself. 

He looked down at his lover’s face; his skin looked sunken, his profile in sharp relief against the firelight. While Garrett was no longer in danger of bleeding to death, he wasn’t out of the woods by a long way. It would be a while before Anders knew if all his efforts had been for nothing.  
It didn’t help, feeling like the elf was watching his every move. He wondered briefly what would happen if Hawke died - if his last sight would be his own heart beating in Fenris’ bloody fist. The thought left him strangely unmoved. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go on without Hawke anyway; the world would be dust and ashes without him. Even his cause suddenly seemed hollow; empty words shouted into the darkness, swallowed up by the void. 

Justice didn’t keep him warm at night.

Anders was exhausted and emotionally drained; he could hardly keep his eyes open. He pulled the blanket tighter around him, against the cold that seemed to radiate out from his bones. He wouldn’t sleep tonight. He’d watch over Hawke and wait, and pray, if he could remember how.


	3. the silence in between

Anders woke with a start, confused and disorientated, a frightened “Please, no…” escaping his lips before he could prevent it. He pressed a trembling hand to his mouth, embarrassed. The damned elf was staring at him, glass-green eyes fixed unblinkingly on his, and Anders looked away sharply. Cursing himself for falling asleep, he reached for Garrett’s wrist, pressing the tips of his fingers against the purple tracework of veins, feeling the pulse, slow and steady, beneath the skin. Garrett felt warm, and his breathing was shallow and even, but Anders wouldn’t allow himself to hope. It was safer not to.

“When will he awaken?” Fenris asked.

“Not yet.” He stood and stretched, feeling the ache in his bones from spending the night in his chair. “I’ll keep him asleep for as long as i can. He’s better off out of it.”

Hawke’s condition seemed stable for now, at least, and it was probably safe enough to let the elf watch over him for a while, while he saw to things. There were potions and tisanes to be brewed. He went over to the wardrobe and took out one of Hawke’s house robes, throwing it carelessly in Fenris’ direction. “You should wash and change,” he said. “You smell like death.” 

After the claustrophobic atmosphere of Hawke’s bedroom, the kitchen was like a different world. A fire glowed warm and cheerful in the hearth, and the smell of baking bread filled the air, making Anders’ empty stomach lurch queasily. Bodahn bustled around, insisting he sit down and drink a mug of tea while it was hot.

“I’ll get you something to eat; you need to keep your strength up, Messere Anders,” he said.

“I’m fine.” Anders waved the dwarf away impatiently, in a hurry to finish and get back to Hawke’s side. He instructed Bodahn to boil up a pot of barley, and when it was done he strained off the water, mixing some honey with it for energy. The resulting liquid had an unpleasantly slimy quality, but it would soothe Hawke’s guts, as well as providing a certain amount of nourishment.

He used the supplies Fenris had brought from the clinic to brew a batch of elfroot teas, and some potions to help the injured man sleep. When he’d finally finished he gave in and wolfed down a bowl of porridge to shut Bodahn up, and had to admit he felt better for it.

“Will Messere Fenris be staying?” Bodahn asked.

Anders nodded distractedly, and the dwarf added another dish of porridge and some apples to the tray of medicines. 

“Well, we can’t have him going hungry,” he said. “Messere Garrett wouldn’t want that.”

“ At the moment, Messere Garrett couldn't give a toss. He could be surrounded by seven naked desire demons dancing the remigold, and wouldn’t give a flying fuck,” Anders snapped. “And personally i’m more than happy to let the wretched creature starve to death, if he hasn’t the wits to feed himself.” 

He picked up the tray and stormed out of the room. Even without Justice’s whispered reminders, he knew it was beneath him, but he couldn’t help it; the elf brought out the worst in him, made him petty and spiteful. What did any of it matter now, when Hawke was probably dying? He should try to be civil, at least, out of respect for Hawke. It wouldn’t do to have the two of them at each other’s throats over his sickbed.

Fenris was sitting crosslegged on the bed beside the unconscious man, wearing the robe Anders had thrown at him, dark red silk rolled up to his elbows. He’d helped himself to a pair of Hawke’s trousers too, by the look of it. They sagged around his legs and looked ridiculous on him; as if he was a child in ill fitting hand me downs. 

“There’s food,” Anders muttered. “If you want it.”

He lifted Hawke as gently as possible, propping him up against the stack of pillows. The movement seemed to rouse Hawke to semi consciousness; his eyelids fluttered, and he let out a feeble whimper of pain.

“Shh, it’s alright darling.” Anders soothed him. He tentatively spooned a few drops of the barley water between Garrett’s slack lips, and it spilled straight out again, trickling down to darken his beard.

“Come on, love.” Anders tried again. He ran a fingertip lightly over the injured man’s throat, in an attempt to make him swallow, but Garrett just coughed weakly. “Please Garrett,” he urged. “Just swallow a little bit; I know you can do it.” The spoon shook in his hand. He felt suddenly close to tears.

“Calm yourself, mage.” Fenris voice was low and steady. Anders realised the elf was holding Hawke’s hand; tattooed fingers wrapped around Garretts broad palm. He looked away, trying to pretend he hadn’t seen it. 

“He’s lost so much blood, he’s weak and dehydrated...” 

“We can try again in a few minutes, when you are less agitated.”

“I’m not agitated,” Anders snapped. He was emotional; of course he was - anyone with a scrap of human feeling would be. The elf was cold blooded, unnatural, if he didn't understand that.

He sank back in his chair, his shoulders slumped, fingertips rubbing at the tension between his eyes. Fenris was still holding Garrett’s hand. It was intolerable He wanted to slap him. He had an urge to take Hawke’s other hand, just to make a point, but he realised how pathetic it would look if he did.

Silence settled over the room, thick and stifling. Anders felt it like a weight on his chest. He’d always hated the quiet.

He glanced over at the elf in his absurd finery. He’d tucked the robe into a belt to keep it closed, but it still gaped at the neck, showing off his barbaric markings. It was the first time Anders had got a proper look at them, and he was fascinated despite himself. The lyrium seemed to follow the curve of the warriors ribs and collarbones, the twisted lines of his veins, like a primitive anatomy lesson mapped out on his skin. Up close, Anders could see that the silvery brands were less attractive than he’d imagined; the skin was thickened and slightly raised, puckered at the edges like an old scar. It had an unwholesome look to it; a pallid, fishbelly sort of shine. The healer was both fascinated and revolted by them at the same time. It seemed impossible that anyone could have survived so much physical trauma, not to mention the long term effects of having that amount of lyrium inside his body. 

“How did they do them?” he asked.

The elf looked at him blankly.

“Your tattoos,” Anders went on. “How were they made?”

“They’re not tattoos.” Fenris corrected him. “They are scars; poison burned into my flesh.” 

“Of course they are, how silly of me.” Anders assumed that was the end of the subject, and he was surprised when the elf continued a moment later.

“I don’t know how it was done. There was a ritual, but i cannot remember it.”

“You really don’t remember anything at all?” 

The warrior frowned, deep wrinkles forming between his black brows. “My… Danarius was fond of reminding me how difficult it was, how much it had cost him, as if i it was something i should have been proud of. He liked to boast to anyone who would listen, about the fortune in lyrium carved into my skin, the cost of the slaves to provide blood for the ritual… but I know nothing of how it was performed. Danarius is the only one alive who knows the procedure.”

“Danarius carried out the ritual himself?”

Fenris shook his head. “He had the others killed, those that survived it.” Something dark flickered at the back of his eyes, and Anders caught a fleeting glimpse of something so haunted and fearful it almost made him want to look away. It seemed there were things in his past that Fenris tried to avoid thinking about. 

That was something else they had in common then.

  Anders suppressed a shudder. “Am i supposed to be horrified by the evils of Tevinter, or impressed that Hawke has such an expensive whore?” 

The elf blinked. “I was... making conversation,” he said. 

“No wonder you never get invited to parties.” 

“That is ironic, coming from you, mage. I don’t know why you even bother with magic, when you could simply bore your enemies to death with your ceaseless whining.”

“You’re pretty bloody arrogant, for a slave.”

“I am not a slave.” 

Anders took the snarl in the warrior’s voice as his cue to either shut up, or risk having his tongue ripped out through his throat. The silence that settled back over the room was even more uneasy than before, haunted now by the nightmarish images the elf had summoned to fill the shadows of the room.

It was broken by a disturbance from the hallway, followed closely by the tread of heavy boots on the stairs. Anders reacted instinctively, jumping to his feet, his heart racing even before he consciously recognised the distinctive sound of someone moving hurriedly in Templar armour. 

Carver Hawke burst into the room like a small thunderstorm. “Where’s that daft bloody brother of mine?” he demanded.

“Carver…” Anders put himself between Carver and the unconscious man, reaching out a hand to stop him. Templar steel, chill and unyielding beneath his fingers. His mouth was suddenly dry. “Don’t disturb him, please... he needs peace and quiet.”

Carver looked down at his brother, the colour visibly draining from his face. “It’s bad then?”

“Didn’t they tell you? The sword went right through him…” Anders felt the horror of it again as he spoke the words.

“Yes, but… I thought... You’re a good healer, Anders. I thought you… “ He fell silent, seemingly struck dumb by the sight of his brother’s face, rawboned and haggard, the colour of old parchment against the pillows. Carver’s eyes glittered and shone in the lamplight. “Fucking hell, Garrett… ”

Templar or not, Anders couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. He was barely more than a kid, after all, and his brother was all the family he had left. “There’s still a chance he might live,” he said softly. “I’m doing everything i can.”

“You should have stopped him,” Carver said.

“Yes,” Anders agreed. “I probably should.”

“He had no choice,” Fenris insisted. “It was the only way.”

“I don’t fucking care.” Carver’s cheeks flushed hot and crimson. He rubbed his eyes angrily with the back of his hand. “Why does he always have to go sticking his nose into other people’s business?”

“He cares about people,” the warrior said. “Would you have him different?”

“I’d have him alive.” Carver turned, and pushed past them out of the room, swearing under his breath. Anders wondered if he should go after him, but there was nothing he could say that would bring him any comfort. He was more use by Hawke’s side.

At what he guessed must be dinnertime, Orana brought up a tray of food and set it on the dressing table, before hurrying out of the bedroom in tears. Neither of them felt like eating. Anders changed Hawke’s bandage, and tried again to get him to swallow some of his potions. This time, Garrett managed to keep a few sips of liquid down, but it did little to relieve Anders anxiety. As the evening dragged on, he grew increasingly restless. He picked up a book in an attempt to distract himself, but soon put it down again, unable to concentrate enough to read. After a while he began to pace up and down the room, unaware that he was counting his own steps beneath his breath as he walked. 

“Sit down, mage.”

“Will you stop telling me what to do?”

“Your pacing disquiets him.”

“No it doesn’t. A sodding bronto could charge through the room and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash.”

“Well, it disquiets me.”

Anders forced himself to sit down, dragging his fingers through his hair, pulling strands loose from his ponytail. “Talk to me then,” he demanded.

“I thought you didn’t like my conversation?”

“I’m sorry.” Anders sat down. “It’s just that I can’t stand this blighted silence. It’s like being buried alive.”

“Very well, what do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know; anything. The weather? The price of fish?”

“You called me a whore,” Fenris said.

“Or yes, we could discuss that; i’m sure that would be a delightful way to pass the time...” Anders sighed wearily. “ I was jealous,” he admitted. “I’m still jealous, all right?”

Fenris frowned, deep lines forming between his brows. “You have no reason to be.”

“Oh, come on. The man i love is sleeping with a very attractive elf - how else am i supposed to feel?”

“I’ve never been a threat to your relationship with Hawke.” Fenris got up, and went over to the dresser to pour himself a glass of wine. “He made it clear from the start that he would not leave you,” he went on. “ I had to be content with the crumbs that were thrown to me.”

“And are you? Content?”

“No.”

“Then why do you put up with it?”

“ I… care about him.” Fenris drained his glass, the brands on his throat shifting, silvery in the glow of the firelight as he swallowed. “It is better than nothing,” he added bitterly.

“You don’t think you’re worth more than that?”

“Do you?” The elf’s eyes, harsh and cold as emeralds, met his, and Anders felt his cheeks burn. He looked away.

“It’s unfair,” Fenris went on. “You have your spirit, and your cause. Hawke was all I had.”

“My cause doesn’t warm my bones at night, any more than your dreams of revenge do.” 

Anders watched as the elf poured another drink. The dark ruby colour of the wine reminded him far too much of blood, but then everything seemed to remind him of blood now. He saw it whenever he closed his eyes.

“You talk as if it’s all in the past.” he said.

“Isn’t it?”

“There’s always hope,” Anders said.

“Do you really believe that?”

Anders shrugged. Did he? He wasn’t sure. Hope was a dangerous thing, it wasn't to be trusted. But he remembered all the times he’d thought he couldn’t go on. Something had kept him going. Something always did.

“I suppose I must,” he said.

He looked down at Hawke, at the bloody scar across his nose and the sharp angle of his cheekbones, at his hair like black feathers scattered across the pillow. 

“He doesn’t mean to be cruel,” Fenris said.

“I know.” Anders blinked back a tear. It was embarrassing, the way his eyes started leaking now at the slightest excuse. “There’s no need for us both to stay awake,” he said. “We can take turns watching him.”

He let the elf take his rest first, sleeping almost upright in the armchair beside the fire, with a blanket pulled up almost to his ears. When it was his turn to sleep he dozed fitfully, still aware of every shift and sigh and from the bed, unable to escape the intrusive images that haunted him. He woke feeling almost more exhausted than he’d been to begin with.

Aveline called round just as the sky began to grow light, on her way home from a gruelling night shift. She looked tired and drawn, the skin beneath her eyes dark from lack of sleep. She perched on the side of the bed and gently brushed the hair back off Hawke’s forehead.

“How is he?” she asked.

Anders had only just woken from his half-sleep; his head was thick, his joints stiff and aching. He thought Hawke’s colour looked a little better; there was a pinkish tinge to his skin. _Don’t allow yourself hope,_ he reminded himself. It would only make it worse, in the end.

“He’s hanging in there,” he said. “You know how stubborn he is.” 

“Thank the Maker.” Aveline agreed. Anders escorted her back downstairs, and made her a mug of tea, adding a splash of brandy to it, despite the early hour.

“It’s chaos out there,” she told him. “Nobody knows what’s happening, no one’s taking charge. It looks like the Qunari really are leaving though, thanks to Hawke.”

Anders had barely given a moments thought to what might be going on outside; his whole world had shrunk to the size of Hawke’s bedroom; time measured out in the rhythm of Hawke’s breath, the pulse of blood through his veins.

“Have you heard anything of Isabela?” he asked.

The Captain shook her head. “If she’s any sense, she’ll be long gone.” She blew on her tea to cool it, before taking a sip. “They’re calling him the Champion of Kirkwall,” she said. “There’s talk of putting up a statue.”

Anders couldn’t help smiling at the idea, thinking of the jokes Hawke would make; the awful double entendres about the size of his erection. “That will amuse him when he wakes up,” he said.

“He will wake up, Anders, won’t he?”

“I don’t know. I’ll do the best i can for him,” he assured her, and Aveline nodded. She reached for his hand and clasped it tightly, and he felt the hot sting of tears at the back of his eyes. 

“I know you will,” she said.

When she’d gone, Anders took the empty cups out to the kitchen, and poured some more Elfroot tea into a bowl to take up for Garrett. He was half way up the stairs when Fenris appeared on the landing.

“Mage, come quickly.” The elf was distraught, his eyes wide and panic-stricken. “Hawke is awake,” he said. “There’s something wrong.”


	4. The next fragile heartbeat

 

Anders ran the rest of the way up the stairs and into the bedroom, panic clutching his chest. Garrett’s eyes were open, but they were glassy and unfocused. His face was flushed, but he shivered violently.

 “What is wrong with him?” Fenris demanded.

 “The wound must have become infected.” Anders cursed under his breath. He pulled the bedclothes back, and loosened the bandage around Hawke’s middle. The scar looked healthy and appeared to be healing well, which meant the infection must be deep inside. How could he have let this happen? He must have missed something, there must have been some sign.

 Hawke clutched at his hand, fingers gripping like claws. “Mother…”  he whispered hoarsely, and Anders felt a chill go through him at the sound. He stood paralysed, the breath caught in his lungs.

  Anders had seen hundreds of people die, clutching bloodied hands to their wounds on the battlefield, or more peacefully, in the makeshift beds in his clinic. Almost without fail they called out for their mothers in their last moments. He’d always been struck by the symmetry of it; the way so many people’s last word echoed their very first. If he were a poet or a religious man, no doubt he’d have found some profound meaning in it. But Anders was a healer; he understood that death was never further away than the next breath, the next fragile heartbeat, and that most of the time it was squalid and meaningless. People died; the little lights that were their lives flickered and went out, and some of them would be mourned, for a while, and then their memories would blow away like mist and it would be as if they’d never lived. That was just the way it was.

 It was unbearable.

 He looked up at Fenris. The elf’s eyes were dark, saturated with fear .“Do something,” he whispered.

 “I’ll need to reopen the wound,” Anders said, feeling sick with dread at the thought of it. He didn’t even know why he said it. It was useless, Hawke was too far gone now. He’d failed, like he’d known he would.

 “Where’s mother?” Garrett twisted deliriously on the bed, caught in the cruel grip of his fever. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

 “Hush love… “  Anders pushed the sweat soaked hair back off his lover’s brow, feeling the way the skin burned beneath his fingertips. Memories of  the last time he’d seen Leandra Hawke came creeping back, and he shuddered, unable to help himself. The horror of her death hadn’t been diminished by time; it had become one of his legion of nightmares.

 Suddenly, Hawke’s muscles stiffened, the tendons in his neck visible, white against the flush of his skin. His whole body grew rigid. Cursing, Fenris grabbed Hawke’s arms, holding them down as the man began to convulse violently.

 “Whatever it is you have to do, do it now,” he hissed from behind gritted teeth. Anders quickly cast a paralysing spell to keep Garrett still, and then unhooked the knife from his belt, held the tip to the jagged scar across Garrett’s belly.

_... and he angles the blade upwards, beneath the ribs; feels the flesh part around it, opening like a mouth, and the blood pours out hot over his wrist, and he pushes the knife further, as far as it will go, and Karl looks at him, his grey eyes dull, uncomprehending…_

 “No.” The knife shook violently in his hand. “Maker, I can’t…”

 “Yes, you can.”  Fenris placed a hand firmly over his, steadying it. The certainty in his voice stilled the mage’s trembling, lent him an unexpected sense of determination. He nodded.

 He looked down at the knife, the shine of it cold and unflinching against Hawke’s belly. He remembered kissing him there, pressing his lips to the skin, feeling the muscles tremble, fluttering as the tip of his tongue slid downwards, dampening the curls of hair beneath his navel, making them glisten darkly. 

 He pressed down firmly with the blade, closing his eyes briefly at the sight of the first beads of blood, shockingly red against Hawke’s skin. Pressed again and the skin parted.  The thick stench of exposed guts filled the room. Anders could sense the infection blossoming darkly within; blackened flesh unfurling like petals. He’d seen healthier looking meat in a butcher’s window. He passed his hands above the wound, and let the light flow from them.

 From the outside, spirit healing seemed a calm and quiet process, but for the healer, it was anything but gentle. It was one of the most difficult magical disciplines, and the energy needed to control and sustain it left him ravaged and weak.

The world was red, bloody; painted in shades of crimson and ruby and wine. He focused deeply, cold sweat breaking out on his upper lip as the power writhed and twisted through him. As he began to tire, he sensed unfriendly spirits gathering, like shadows, whispering at the edges of his consciousness. He felt his concentration slipping, red bleeding through into the room around him.

 “The Lyrium… please...”  He gestured weakly, and the next thing he knew, the bottle was clutched in his bloodied fingers. He swallowed, and the darkness fell away from him. He would not falter. He would not fail Hawke this time; not if it killed him.

 He didn’t stop until he was certain that every single infected cell in Hawke’s body had been mended. Using the very last remains of his strength, he closed the wound again and the world rushed back in..  The sudden disconnect from the fade always disorientated him. He staggered back, his face ashen, the hollows beneath his eyes purple and bruised by fatigue. Fenris caught him under his arms, holding him upright as easily as if he was a child, and he clutched at the elf as the room began to spin.

 “I’m really sorry,” he said, “but I think i’m going to pass out.”

 “You are safe, mage. Rest now.” The murmur of Fenris’ voice against his ear was strangely comforting. He had quite a pleasant voice really, Anders thought; when he wasn’t sneering or being pompous.

 “I can’t, Hawke needs me,”  he protested, as he felt himself being gently lowered onto the bed.

 “I will wake you, if it becomes necessary.”

 Anders nodded weakly, too exhausted to argue. He closed his eyes, and the darkness swallowed him whole.

 

***

 Brown eyes, warm and soft as velvet, were gazing into his. It was one of those dreams, he told himself; the ones where you thought you were finally awake and safe, only to be confronted by some new horror.

 Sour breath, warm against his skin. He reached out to touch Hawke’s face, and felt the familiar scrape of beard beneath his trembling fingers. _Please maker let it be real._

 “Anders...”  Hawke’s voice was thin and old; papery, like the rustle of dead leaves.

 “I’m here, love,” Anders reassured him.

 Garrett attempted a smile, but it trembled and faltered, turned into a grimace. Breath hissed from between his clenched teeth.  “Maker, it hurts,” he said.

 “ Keep still, try to breathe slowly,” Anders advised him. “I can get you something to help the pain.”

 “No, don’t leave me, please…” Hawke clutched at Anders hand, his grip surprisingly strong.

 “Hush, I’m not going anywhere.” Anders forced himself to relax, laying back against the pillows. He studied Hawke’s face. He was still pale and gaunt, his nose jutting out too prominently against his sunken cheeks, the beak of a bird of prey. His pupils were huge, as black as the empty spaces between stars.

 A feeling of joy, fragile and terrifying, began to rise in him, bubbling up in his chest. He wanted to laugh out loud.  Instead, he skimmed the palm of his hand over Hawke’s belly, just above the skin. The light flowed from his fingers, and Garrett sighed, his face visibly relaxing.

 “ I dreamed about you,” he said. “Red in your hair, on your hands. I could see the spirits fluttering around you like bats.”

 Their fingers laced together, and Anders felt the prickle of tears at the back of his eyes. “I thought i’d lost you,” he said.

 “I’m so sorry, love.”

 “I think i can forgive you, just this once.” He smiled, giddy with relief, unable to stop himself. Hawke’s face was the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen; he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it, almost couldn’t believe it was real.

 And then Hawke said “Fenris… is he…”

 “I am here.”  The elf stepped forward from the shadows at the foot of the bed, and Anders heart sank. For a few blissful moments he’d almost forgotten about him.

 Hawke reached for Fenris’ hand. “Thank the maker…” he said. Anders turned away so he didn’t have to see the look on Garrett’s face.

He got up and went to fetch his potions. Half way down the stairs he began to shake, had to stop and cling to the banister, his legs threatening to give way beneath him. He hadn’t dared  believe it possible that Hawke would survive, and he’d steeled himself against the pain, knowing that he would not survive it. If Hawke had died, he wouldn’t have wanted to go on; he would have let Justice’s fire consume him.

 Sick with relief, he wiped his eyes with the frayed cuff of his shirt and headed for the kitchen. He would tell Bodahn and Orana the good news

 When he returned, a few minutes later, with the medicine, the elf was stretched out on the bed, with the injured man’s head resting lightly against his shoulder. Both of them had their eyes closed, and it struck Anders that he’d never seen Fenris looking so peaceful before; he seemed younger, and oddly vulnerable, as if a protective layer had been stripped away from him. Watching them, Anders felt almost as if he was intruding. He cleared his throat.

“This will help the pain,” he said. He lifted Hawke’s shoulders, holding him up as Fenris’ plumped up the pillows to support him, working together almost without thinking, as they had for the past few days. He held the bottle to Hawke’s lips, and saw him hesitate, a flicker of fear sparking deep in his eyes.

 “Will it make me sleep again?”

 Anders nodded. “You need to rest, sweetheart, but we’ll be right here beside you,” he reassured him. "We’ll both be here when you wake up, I promise.”

 Garrett swallowed the bitter potion, and closed his eyes. Anders sat down on the bed beside him, gently combing his fingers through the knots in his hair, waiting until his breathing slowed and deepened before curling up next to him.

 Fenris lay down on the opposite side of the bed. “I would bear his pain for him, if i could,” he said softly.

 Anders stared up into the velvet brocade that canopied the bed. The shadows there hung heavy with memories, as if they were woven magically into the fabric; all the nights they’d spent tangled together in the silk sheets. He heard the echo of his own voice as he whispered his selfish prayers against Hawke’s skin, cried out in his arms. Their bed, he thought; his and Hawke’s. He stared up into the canopy, unable to look at Fenris.

 “I know,” he said.

  



	5. an echo that fades

Over the next few days, Hawke drifted in and out of sleep. Anders and Fenris continued their unspoken routine of caring for him. Hawke was weak and drowsy; the sleeping draughts muddled his thoughts and made him prone to tears. He clutched at his lover’s hands, and grew fearful if they weren’t beside him when he woke.  
When he was awake, they washed and fed him, and got him up to sit, cloaked in blankets, in the armchair beside the fire. Although it pained him to walk, Anders insisted he move as much as he could, warning that lying bedridden too long would make his blood thick and sluggish. 

Now that his sheer terror of losing Garrett had subsided, Anders began to enjoy the routine of caring for the man he loved; the long slow days lit by warm firelight, the hushed hours when the sound of Garrett’s sleeping breath was the only thing to break the silence. He felt more at peace than he had for a long time.

Hawke didn’t make a good invalid, and it wasn’t long before he grew irritable and impatient. The special broth Anders lovingly prepared for him was soon spat out and declared inedible. He refused to piss in a chamber pot in the bedroom, insisting that Anders and Fenris help him to the water closet, even though he could barely stand upright. Anders sensed the unspoken fears that lay beneath the wounded man’s constant complaints, but he couldn’t resist joking that he’d almost preferred him unconscious.”It was so wonderfully peaceful,” he teased, rolling his eyes. Even as he said it, he was uncomfortably aware that there was a grain of truth to the words. Maker forbid, it wasn’t that he didn’t want Garrett to recover, but for a while, he’d felt that Hawke had really needed him. There was a part of him that didn’t want it to end. He wasn’t sure he was ready to share his lover with the rest of the world again.

Since Garrett’s fever had broken, the three of them had fallen into the habit of sharing the huge bed, Hawke in the middle and Anders and Fenris curled up at either side of him. It wasn’t a particularly restful way arrangement, but Anders stubbornly refused to give up his place in Garrett’s bed, especially while the elf was still there. They all woke up numerous times each night, disturbed by the slightest sound or movement, Anders whispering reassurance when Hawke tossed and turned in his sleep.

He was aware that something was different that morning, even before he was properly awake. The warmth of Hawke’s sleeping body at his side was comfortable and familiar, but he’d grown used to the sounds of the two of them now; the rhythm of two people breathing, two bodies shifting and sighing in their sleep. He sensed right away that there was something missing.  
He opened his eyes. It was almost daylight, a hint of pearly grey dawn showing through the narrow gap between the curtains. Over Garrett’s shoulder he could make out the empty space on the other side of the bed.  
Anders closed his eyes again and tried to get back to sleep, but it was no good; he was wide awake now. When the elf still hadn’t reappeared after a few minutes, he slid out from beneath the quilt as unobtrusively as possible, and padded downstairs in his bare feet.

He found Fenris in the drawing room, standing in front of the fireplace. The flames had died down overnight, and only the faintest glow from the embers remained, barely visible beneath a mound of ash. Fenris stood with his back to the door, his shoulders hunched as he bent to fasten his belt, white hair falling forward, parting to reveal the elegant curve of his neck. _Hawke’s whore_ , Anders reminded himself, poking at the hurt as if it was a rotten tooth. But the familiar ache was accompanied by a twinge of guilt - it was wrong of him to think like that, when Fenris had sat at Hawke’s bedside with him throughout the long nights, each of them wrapped in their solitary grief and pain.  
He had an urge to say something, but the elf was always so quick to anger, and Anders often had a knack of saying the wrong thing. He found himself hesitating, almost afraid to speak. 

“Are you alright?” he managed, eventually. 

Fenris didn’t look up from what he was doing. “You saved his life,” he said.

“I didn’t do it for you.”

“Still, I am in your debt.” The warrior turned around to face him, and Anders saw that he was wearing his leather leggings, the heavy belt he wore with his armour fastened around his waist. Above it, Hawke’s silky robe hung open over his bare chest, and Anders eyes were drawn almost against his will, by the subtle quicksilver shine of the Lyrium.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

“Hawke is recovering; there’s no need for me to stay.” 

It was absurd, Anders thought. Even barechested and draped in silk, the elf was still all spikes and sharp edges. The armour never really came off.

It was absurd too, that his first instinct was to protest.

“Hawke likes you being here,” he said.

“I am in the way.” 

“He doesn’t think that.”

“ But you do.”

Anders snorted. “Since when did you care what i think?”

“Venhedis!” Fenris’ lip curled; he looked like he wanted to spit. “Wretched mage; I should have known you would be ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful? You’ve decided you’ve had enough of playing nursemaid and you’re swanning off back to that stinking mausoleum of yours to drink yourself into a coma. What the fuck is it i’m supposed to be grateful for, exactly?”

“I was trying to be considerate, you fool. I thought you would be… happier, if i left.” 

“What?” Anders was momentarily confused. “Oh no, you’re not using me as an excuse. I’m not letting you run out on Hawke; not after what he’s been through. If you hurt him him now, i swear i’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

Fenris glared at him. “I don’t wish to hurt him, but i owe you a debt, mage. I will leave the two of you in peace.” 

Anders was taken aback. Gratitude was the last thing he’d expected from the elf; he didn’t know how to feel. There was a lump in his throat as he asked “Is that what you really want?”

“It is what you want, isn’t it?”

Yes, of course it was what he wanted. But not like this, not with the elf playing the fucking martyr, and Hawke’s heart broken, eaten away until there was nothing of it left for him. He shook his head. "No.”

“What then? What would you have me do?”

“I don’t….” Anders sighed, exasperated. “Fenris, you don’t have to do anything. I’m a healer; it’s what I do. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Hawke almost died.”

“Yes,” Anders agreed.

“I was _afraid.”_

The elf’s gaze met his, and Anders recoiled as if he’d hit. So much fear and rage and pain, and the poor sod didn’t know how to deal with any of it. He felt Justice’s anger flare, fierce and bright behind his eyes, and pushed it back. _Hush,_ he soothed. _Not now._ It was old hurt, scarred and bone deep; there was nothing Justice could do.

“I’m sorry,” Anders said. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was apologising for, but he wanted to say something. The easy platitudes he used to console his patients wouldn’t come; the nightmare was still too fresh in his mind, the memories too harrowing. He reached out, warily, the palm of his hand brushing lightly against Fenris’ arm in what was supposed to be a gesture of comfort, half expecting the elf to hiss and claw at him like a stray cat.  
Fenris was looking at him with an odd expression, his green eyes sharp, the colour of bitter fruits. Anders wondered briefly what his own eyes looked like, if the fractures in him were showing. He withdrew his hand awkwardly. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “You don’t have to go; not yet. Hawke still needs you.”

He felt trapped by the elf’s steady gaze; unable to look away, as the silence stretched awkwardly between them. Eventually Fenris’ looked away, and the stiffness in his shoulders seemed to loosen, just a little. 

“Then i will stay, for a little while longer,” he said.

“Just until Garret gets his strength back.” Anders agreed. The encounter had left him feeling inexplicably drained. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, where a headache was starting.

“I’m going to make some tea,” he said. “Come on, you look like you could do with some too.”

In the kitchen, Anders added a log to the fire, and put the kettle on to boil. It seemed neither of them had anything more to say, and they sat in silence until the tea was ready. Anders set the mugs on the table, and sat down opposite the elf, watching as Fenris sipped his tea, tattooed fingers curled tightly round the mug as he blew on the steaming liquid to cool it.  
There was more to healing than blood and bones. The quality that set spirit healers apart from other mages was an almost abnormal ability to empathise with others. To heal something effectively you had to understand it, had to almost feel it yourself. Anders still felt shaken by the torment he’d glimpsed in Fenris’ eyes. It was natural to want to offer him comfort, wasn’t it?

Anders had grown up in the Circle; Maker help him, he knew all about repressed emotions. He understood why a slave couldn’t afford to have feelings. Even so, it had suited him to dismiss the elf as cold and uncaring. It had made him easier to hate. And his hatred had felt justified. It wasn’t simply that Fenris was his rival for Hawke’s affections; the damned elf never shut up about how mages couldn’t be trusted, how they needed to be caged. He’d called Anders an abomination, and Justice a demon. _But here I am,_ he thought; _sitting beside him drinking tea as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. _As if Fenris was, after all, just another man, with needs and doubts and fears like his own. He didn’t want to think about it, though he knew Justice would insist they did, later.__

His gaze flickered again to the elf’s chest and the awful, otherworldly shine of the Lyrium beneath his skin. He remembered touching Fenris’ arm, and the way the muscles had trembled slightly beneath his fingers; the subtle murmur of the lyrium, like a half forgotten dream. He looked away, embarrassed, the tips of his fingers prickling. 

“I should be getting back to Hawke,” he said. “You know how he hates it if there’s no one there when he wakes.” He stood up, and poured some more tea to take up for Hawke before heading back upstairs. Fenris followed him. The door to Hawke’s room was ajar, and as they reached the top of the stairs, a breathy whimper sounded from inside. Anders peered around the door with a certain amount of trepidation. Garrett’s huge warhound was splayed on it’s back across the bed, drooling happily onto the pillow while Hawke played with it’s ears. 

“It seems we have both been usurped in Hawke’s affections, mage,” Fenris said drily, the faintest hint of a smile hovering at the corners of his lips. 

“You know how i feel about animals in the sickroom,” Anders huffed, doing his best to sound disapproving. 

“I begged Orana to let him up here. Don’t be angry with her, Anders; you know how pathetic I am when I beg.” He grinned up at them, and his smile made Anders feel giddy. At that moment it seemed entirely possible that he’d never be angry with him again.  
He put the mug of tea on the bedside table, and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Come on, budge up, you great hairy lump.” 

“Don’t talk to my Mabari like that.” 

“ I was talking to you.” 

Hawke chuckled. He shooed the huge animal off the bed to make room for Anders, reaching an arm around his shoulders to pull him close. Anders leaned into the crook of Hawke’s arm, breathing in the smell of him; morning sweat, laced with the faint earthy tang of elfroot. He sighed and closed his eyes, delighting in the closeness, the warmth of his lover’s body next to his. It was so long since he’d been held; he didn’t want it to end.  
Out of nowhere, the image of Fenris flashed into his mind, and he felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Was it painful for the elf, he wondered, seeing them like this? Hawke must have been thinking the same thing, because he stiffened, untangled his arm from around Anders shoulders. “Maker, Fenris, I’m sorry.” 

Anders opened his eyes. The warrior was watching them from the foot of the bed, his green eyes indecipherable. He shook his head slowly, as if trying to clear it, and then, without a word, he turned and left the room. 

“Fenris, wait… please…” Hawke started to get up, but the sudden movement made him gasp with pain, and he sagged back against the pillows. “Maker damn it, Anders; go after him, will you.” 

Anders raised an eyebrow. “You are joking?” he said. But he saw the fear etched in stark lines on Garrett's face, and he sighed. 

“I don’t think he’ll go anywhere,” he reassured him. “He just needs time to think. This isn’t easy for him.” 

“It’s not easy for any of us,” Hawke admitted. “I’m sorry. I wish things were different, love.” 

“No point wishing,” Anders said. “It’s just the way it is. It’s up to us to find a way to make it work, or to change it.” 

He wondered when he had stopped feeling angry. He wasn’t sure what it meant, as yet, but a change had crept up on him as he’d waited by Hawke’s bedside; a new awareness of what really mattered. It wasn’t as if he was suddenly happy with the situation; he wasn’t. But Hawke was alive, and they were together, and somehow he couldn’t find the energy to be bitter any more; it didn’t seem to achieve anything but heartache. 

Hawke took his hand and kissed it tenderly, pressing his lips to Anders’ knuckles, and Anders felt the familiar longing, threading through him like gold in his veins. He reached out, tangling his fingers through Garrett’s hair, cupping the back of his head and gently drawing him close, until their lips were almost touching. Hawke laughed softly, and the shiver of his breath against Anders’ lips made him lightheaded. He moved closer, closing the gap between them until their lips met.

It had been a long time since they’d kissed like this, just for the pleasure of it; with no expectation of anything more. When they eventually broke apart they were both smiling. Anders almost laughed out loud from sheer happiness. He curled contentedly against his lover’s side, and when he closed his eyes, he found himself wondering what Fenris was doing, and hoping he was alright. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on Tumblr as dorianpink :-)


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